‘How did she get hold of these?’
‘She did not say, sir. She said she had hoped to find Mr Cooper here to return them to him.’
‘Did she give any indication as to his whereabouts?’
Jane shook her head nervously. ‘I did ask her that, but she merely said that she didn’t know. She said that if you came home before Mr Cooper arrived that she would be happy to talk with you, and she told me how you might find her. Should I have asked more? Did I do wrong, master?’
‘No, you did well. What manner of woman was she?’
‘Of a pleasant disposition, but exceeding worried, I would say. Worried for Mr Cooper. And that, in turn, caused me great concern for his welfare.’
Shakespeare breathed in sharply through his teeth. He, too, was worried for Boltfoot’s welfare.
Darkness was falling when Shakespeare found the house. The woman seemed relieved that he had come, but put a finger to her lips and begged him to speak low, for her children were asleep.
‘How did you come to be in possession of Mr Cooper’s arms, Mistress Cane?’
Bathsheba Cane told him all that had passed between them. ‘After he left me, he must have been followed, for Tom Pearson the water-bearer saw him being apprehended by three men, who were accompanied by two women. Mr Cooper was still unarmed and so would have had no way to defend himself.’
‘Did Mr Pearson have any idea who the abductors might be?’
She nodded, her face drawn and fearful. ‘They were three of Cutting Ball’s men. They are well known around here, for they prey on the ships moored at the wharfs.’
‘Did he know their names?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What of the women?’
Bathsheba looked pained. ‘It is a life I would wish to put behind me, sir. But from the description, I believe one of them was likely to have been Em, the sister of Cutting Ball. I have met her – indeed she has been here in this parlour with my late husband and Mr Ball himself – and I would be content never to see them again.’
‘What do you think they might have done with Mr Cooper?’
‘I fear the worst, sir. But before he left, I did talk a great deal with him and there was one matter he believed would be of great import to you . . .’ She tailed off uncertainly.
‘Please continue.’
‘My husband had another woman. You might call her paramour or lover, but I would call her whore and trug. Her name was Abigail and she was a lady’s maid in the household of the Giltspur family. He liked to spit her name in my face.’
So his doubts about Abigail were confirmed, but not in the way he had expected. Surely Cane must be the father of her unborn child. Now, at least, there was a certain link between the murderer and Giltspur House.
Shakespeare absorbed the information. What precisely did it mean? Did the connection help Kat’s case, or hinder it? ‘Mistress, did your husband know this Abigail before she went to work there – or was he already acquainted with someone within the house?’
She shook her head.‘That is not the kind of thing that he would have told me.’
‘I have met this Abigail and she is big with child. Do you believe your husband is the father?’ He tried to speak gently.
‘Who can tell? The woman is a harlot. When next you see her, please spit in her face for me.’
‘Did your husband ever talk of the Giltspur family?’
‘He trumpeted their great wealth and ease of living and how, by the grace of Mr Ball, he would one day rise to such wealth and stature himself.’
‘What of Cutting Ball? Do you know where I might find him?’
She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘No.’
‘I beg you, mistress. If you know something, tell me. Mr Cooper might yet be alive – it might not be too late to save him.’
She sighed. ‘Ask Em Ball. She runs all the whores for her brother in the stews east of the Tower. Mr Cooper met her in the Burning Prow, which is no more than five minutes from here.’
He nodded. ‘Boltfoot told me of the place. Can you take me there?’
As they walked through the darkening, dangerous streets, Shakespeare felt an icy chill in his veins. If Boltfoot had been at the mercy of Cutting Ball all this time, then there could be little hope for him. What evil had they wrought upon him before merciful death? The bile rose in Shakespeare’s throat. Someone had to pay.
From the outside, the Burning Prow looked like a large alehouse, set into the centre of a woodframe house without windows. The street was largely deserted, for this was Sunday, but a few men were making their furtive way towards it. Shakespeare was painfully aware that he had no plan, nor any strength of arms against Cutting Ball’s men. But nor could he simply wait and do nothing. He had to confront Em Ball, whatever the risk.
Inside, the main hall was busy and stank of perfumes from the Orient. A young black man sat on a stool, playing a ballad on the lute. Men drank and sized up the women, of whom there were about ten, deciding which one they wished to buy. The room itself was decorated in shades of red and black, with commonplace tapestries and painted cloths on the walls, depicting scenes of bawdiness: satyrs with pricks like Priapus, fleshy women with no clothing but welcoming smiles, devils with forks chasing bishops into the fire.
‘There she is,’ Bathsheba said as soon as her eyesight had adjusted to the candlelit interior. She nodded towards a good-looking woman talking with a pair of girls at the left side of the room. ‘Don’t be fooled by her comely face and manner, Mr Shakespeare. She is pretty like the falcon, but with sharper talons.’ And with a squeeze of his arm, she slipped unseen into the crowd.
As Shakespeare approached Em Ball, she turned to him and smiled in welcome. He did not smile back.
‘Well, sir, and who might you be?’ she said.
‘John Shakespeare, master to Mr Boltfoot Cooper.’
If she was surprised, it did not register on her handsome face. ‘Then it is my pleasure to welcome you. Indeed, I had been expecting you.’ She swept her hand around the room to indicate the scantily clad women. ‘Is there one you like? I would offer the very finest to a Walsingham man.’ She pointed to the far corner where a young woman with fair hair was seated all alone. ‘That is Kristina. She came stowed away aboard a carrack from the Swedish lands. Is she not a faerie princess, all pale and smooth? She knows tricks that even the French have not yet learnt. Take her, she is yours for the night.’
There was a hardness in Em Ball’s bright eyes that Shakespeare had not noticed from the other side of the room. This was a woman of ruthless intelligence.
‘I want to speak with your brother, Miss Ball.’
‘Ah.’ She feigned disappointment. ‘That will not be possible, I fear. He has gone to the country to recover from a summer sweat. Forget him. Kristina will soothe you, sir. Both soul and body. ’
Shakespeare bent his head to her ear and spoke slowly and clearly. ‘Do you wish me to bring this empire of yours crashing down around your ears? Do you wish to be brought to the scaffold for being accessory to murder? Take me to your brother, now. I want to know what he has done with my man Cooper, God damn your filthy, rotten soul.’
Em Ball widened her eyes. ‘Why, sir, he has gone to sea! My brother found him a berth aboard a great vessel.’ She shook her head and tutted. ‘But fret not, he will be back by year’s end. Gone fishing to the Grand Banks, I do believe. A long voyage, but a profitable one.’
‘You lie. Mr Cooper would not take ship if he had the choice.’
‘But I do know for certain sure that he has gone to sea, and I will happily swear it to you. Think of it as a favour to you and the esteemed Mr Secretary. Come, Mr Shakespeare.’
Without waiting for him, she turned and pushed open a door into an inner chamber. He followed her into a functional room with dark panelling, very unlike the bawdy, colourful den beyond.
‘Take a seat, Mr Shakespeare. Can I bring you refreshment? I have some fine apple brandy.’
‘I want non
e of your ill-gotten produce. Nor do I want to sit down. I want Boltfoot Cooper – and I want him alive.’
‘You have nothing to fear. He will come back from his voyage a wealthier man. My brother would do nothing to harm any man or woman close to Sir Francis Walsingham.’
‘This has nothing to do with Walsingham.’
‘Oh but it has, Mr Shakespeare. It has everything to do with the Principal Secretary. Why else do you imagine I allow you the services of Beth and Eliza Smith?’
For a moment Shakespeare was speechless.
‘Did you not know they were my creatures? Every profession needs a company or guild, even night-workers. And so you may think of me as their warden.’
‘Warden? You are a grubby bawd, madam. You trade in flesh and disease.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘And you and your master are among my finest customers.’
‘And do you think then that Walsingham would protect you?’
‘He protects us all, does he not? England, Queen Bess and all her true subjects are safe thanks to the vigilance of Mr Secretary and the work of good men such as yourself.’
‘No.’ Shakespeare’s voice was cold with fury. ‘He would hang you, and all your villainous crew. And I would fashion the noose for him.’ Should he cart this woman to gaol? See how she fared under hard questioning with her hands and legs in irons.
She seemed to read his mind. ‘Do not even think of it, Mr Shakespeare. There are four strong men out there, each of them armed with blades and pistols. You would not get me past the door.’
It was true. For a moment he considered his options and realised they were exceedingly limited. ‘Damn you, madam, I will be back – and with a squadron of men-at-arms, if necessary from the Queen’s own guard. They are not in your pay.’
She tutted again. ‘Oh, Mr Shakespeare, there is so much that you seem not to understand. You rail against me, and yet it was I who saved your man. He was set on a path to self-destruction and I rescued him.’
He slammed his fist into the oak-panelled wall. ‘Saved him? Rescued him? You abducted him and I know not what else. You say you esteem Walsingham and all who work for him, yet Boltfoot Cooper worked for me and, in so doing, served my master, too.’
‘Which is why he is still alive.’
Shakespeare forced himself to calm down. He cursed himself for his impetuosity. Where was the cold logic Walsingham so prized? He had barged in here with no thought except to rescue Boltfoot and now he had no way of knowing if this woman spoke the truth, although it was an elaborate tale for a lie. Maybe Boltfoot was indeed on some wretched fishing vessel headed for the Grand Banks across thousands of miles of ocean.
‘And so if you are done with me, good sir—’
‘No.’ There was still time to take control of the encounter. ‘There is the other matter. The reason Mr Cooper first came to you. What do you know of the death of Nicholas Giltspur? My man had discovered something, had he not? That was why he was made to disappear. So tell me about Giltspur and your foul confederate Will Cane. Tell me what you know about his liaison with the lady’s maid Abigail.’
‘I think it is time for you to leave, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘I want answers.’
‘You are swimming in dangerous waters. There are matters here that do not concern you.’ She tapped on the door and two men immediately appeared, powerfully built men with bare arms carved with snakes, and weapons at their belts. ‘Mr Shakespeare is leaving.’
They stepped forward, but he was already moving. He had no intention of giving them the satisfaction of slinging him out onto the street.
‘I will return, madam.’
‘Then you will regret it.’
Chapter 33
As he walked through the dark streets into the city, Shakespeare attempted to connect everything he knew:
Nicholas Giltspur had been killed by Will Cane; his widow Kat had been implicated by Cane, but denied any part in the murder; Kat’s lady’s maid, Abigail, was mistress to Cane and was now pregnant – probably by him; Cane was a member of the villainous crew run by Cutting Ball and his sister Em; Em was bawd to the Smith sisters, now being used by Shakespeare to keep Gilbert Gifford happy.
So suddenly there was a link, however tenuous, between the murder of Nicholas Giltspur and the margins of the conspiracy surrounding Anthony Babington and the Queen of Scots. But what precisely was the nature of that link? Could there be something of greater moment in the murder of Giltspur than jealousy and avarice?
The old Giltspur widow had said her family had done more for England than the whole Privy Council combined. Walsingham had admitted that the Giltspur ships secretly carried men and messages to the northern ports of Europe.
There were other matters too that could not be ignored: the death of a love-crazed suitor, the curious behaviour of his simpleton brother.
It was all like a tangle of rope. Would he ever unravel its knots?
The lantern at the entrance of Seething Lane cast a welcome glow across the street. The watchman was trying to harry and jostle people to their homes, his mastiff straining at the leash and growling. He hailed Shakespeare with a wave. ‘Don’t know what’s becoming of London, Mr Shakespeare. It’s long past curfew but when I kick them up the arse and tell them I’ll have them in Bridewell, they laugh me to scorn.’
‘Well, I’ll be abed soon enough, Joe.’ Just as Shakespeare stepped forward to his front door, an explosion split the night air. He recoiled. No, not an explosion – a pistol shot. A spray of splinters had stung his face and he felt certain he had caught the wind of the bullet, but he had not been hit. All around him people were rooted to the spot in shock. A woman was cowering in the gutter, screaming.
‘God’s faith, Mr Shakespeare! I’m bleeding.’ He turned to see the watchman holding up his hand, blood dripping from his thumb. The man’s dog wagged its tail and licked the blood where it fell. Shakespeare turned back to scan the crowd and saw the assailant twenty yards away, standing stock-still in the doorway of the house opposite Shakespeare’s. He was trying to reload the weapon, pouring powder with steady hands. His head was cowled like a monk’s. Shakespeare started towards him, ripping the dagger from his belt. Realising he did not have time to load and fire, the assassin thrust the unloaded weapon into his belt and turned to run.
‘That’s him!’ Shakespeare shouted. ‘That man. Take that man.’
He flung himself forward at full sprint, but the shooter had ducked right, down a narrow passage between houses. Shakespeare ran after him, certain he would not be outpaced, ready to launch himself at the man. Ahead of him he could see the dark hood, blown back from his head, and the cloak billowing behind him, like a bat in the dusk. There was something in his movements that seemed familiar, but it was too dark to get a proper look and he could not place him.
In dismay, he realised that he was making no ground on the fleeing man. The pistolier was as fleet as a hound. By now he had reached the end of the alley and disappeared. When Shakespeare finally reached the corner, there was no sign of the man.
Somewhere in the distance, back in Seething Lane, he heard whistles. A hue and cry was being raised. It would be too slow and too late. He was the only chance they had of apprehending the would-be killer. Ahead of him, fifty yards away, he saw a slight movement and began running again. This time he gained ground easily but soon realised he was chasing a husband and wife, walking arm in arm. He rasped an oath. How could he have lost him? He thrust his dagger back into his belt and drew his sword and began a slow, meticulous search of the street in both directions. Surely the man could not have gone far. He, too, must be exhausted. Another member of the watch appeared. ‘Are you Shakespeare?’
‘Yes.’
‘Time to go home, master. There’s nothing to be done. We’ve got a hue and cry up, but the man’s long gone.’
‘And Joe?’
‘Bullet took a chunk out of his thumb and broke his staff in two. The thumb’s nothing his wife won’t be able
to kiss better, but the staff is only fit for firewood. Come, sir, let me accompany you back to Seething Lane.’
Shakespeare gritted his teeth. By now the assassin could be in any one of a hundred streets in this maze of a town.
‘Master?’
‘Very well, I’ll come.’
Jane was most solicitous. She applied strips of linen to the watchman’s injured thumb and provided ale for him and the other members of the watch who had gathered in Seething Lane and were discussing the shooting like gossips at the birth of a baby.
‘Time to go about your business, gentlemen,’ Shakespeare said at last.
‘We’ll keep a guard in the lane until dawn. I do believe you were his target, Mr Shakespeare.’
Yes, he believed it too. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But a guard won’t be necessary. I can look after myself well enough.’ But why was he the target? Was this to do with Cutting Ball and the murder of Nick Giltspur – or had the Pope’s White Sons decided they didn’t trust him after all?
In the morning, Shakespeare was eating a large breakfast when there was a hammering at the door. Jane appeared. ‘The door, master. Should I answer it?’
‘Indeed, Jane, I doubt whether an assassin would knock before he entered.’
She bowed quickly then hurried off to open the front door. A minute later she was back, just as Shakespeare was finishing his eggs.
‘You have a visitor, master, a Mr Sorbus.’
Sorbus here? What could he want? Shakespeare patted his lips with his kerchief. ‘Tell him I will be with him shortly.’
‘Yes, master.’
In the anteroom, Sorbus looked stiff and uncomfortable. He afforded Shakespeare a perfunctory bow of the head. More a hen’s peck than a bow.
‘Good day, Mr Sorbus.’
‘Mr Shakespeare, sir. Thank you for receiving me.’
‘I had always thought it good manners to welcome guests.’
If Sorbus spotted the intended barb, he did not react to it. ‘Indeed, sir,’ was all he said.
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